Warning: Dark Peeta, swearing and AU things.

Disclaimer: I do not own the Hunger Games, or any of the Hunger Games characters. I will only write this once, but it holds true for any chapters that succeed this one.

Kintsukuroi: "To repair with gold"; the art of repairing pottery with gold and understanding that the piece is more beautiful for having been broken.

It has been exactly eight hours since I was given the news about my district's bombing. I only know this because the shiny chrome clock hanging in my otherwise empty hospital room now reads a quarter past ten and the faint ticking of the stupid thing has been my focus for nearly the entire time. It keeps my mind occupied at least, while my body remains immobile.

Haymitch, before he left me to cry in peace over the news, had informed me that visitors weren't allowed to see me yet. He was my only visitor in the eight hour period, besides a single nurse, and I can only assume Peeta and the other victors were being held under the same conditions I was.

If I wasn't so weak and useless right now I would already be at Peeta's side, making sure he was okay not just physically but emotionally and mentally. I know he would be doing the same thing for me, rules or not, which is the only reason I'm sure he's being kept for medical observation as well.

'The nurse says your body is in a real bad way, that you're too frail to see anyone right now. Reckons it would cause unnecessary stress and harm,' Haymitch told me when he first entered.

It was the reasoning behind my isolation. This is almost an absolute lie though; I have no doubts that my body is in a bad state – I can feel my muscles spasm with even the slightest of movements, my skin feels dry and taut, and despite the extreme amounts of painkillers flowing into my body via tubes I'm still partially paralysed with acute bouts of pain over my body – but the pain of not seeing or knowing whether Prim was safe in this strange, new environment might be more stressful.

If Haymitch felt that I was able to cope with the news of my district's destruction, in great detail at that, then there shouldn't be any harm in seeing my own sister.

I heard her, along with my mother, try to enter my small hospital room a few hours ago. They had been talked down to by whoever it was guarding the room once though and that was the last I heard from them. Who I do hear rather frequently however is Gale.

He's pacing along the path in front of my door, his normally silent tread loud and ungraceful, making him as easy to hear as a bear cub running over dry sticks. It's the third time I've heard him within an hour.

"What are you doing to her in there that requires a fucking night watchman?!" I hear Gale yell loudly from behind the door. There's a muffled noise of reply before I hear the loud smack of a body hitting the metal frame of the door followed by the sounds of grunts and punches hitting flesh.

I roll my eyes at the ruckus they're making, surprising myself a little with the lack of worry I have for Gale. He can handle himself in a fight though, so I turn my head slightly on my pillow and try to drown out the sounds of the brawl. It's a hard task; within seconds it begins to sound like they're rolling around on the floor in a heap and I can't help but laugh internally at the thought of Gale on the floor during a fight, as though he was a Tom cat.

Another voice joins in which quickly puts an end to the commotion and my imaginative entertainment, leaving me with just the sound of the ticking clock, the dripping from my I.V. and, if I concentrate enough, Gale's pacing for distraction.

Letting out a deep sigh I close my eyes and try, unsuccessfully, to get some sleep. I give up after five minutes and instead start counting the cracks in the roof just to keep my mind preoccupied.

Thankfully the door to my room opens almost an hour later, Gale rushing into the room first with Haymitch following his lead.

They both look as terrible as I feel: Gale has horrible bruising discolouring his face and blood spotting his dishevelled clothing, while Haymitch – well, he usually looks terrible as drinking doesn't seem to do him any favours – but he almost looks like a sober drunk. His short hair sticking up in the odd spot or two. He seems to be able to read my assessment of him because he lets out a slight snort.

"Yeah, yeah, I know. They've hidden the alcohol from me. Or they don't have any. I'm not sure yet, but I'm sure they have a bundle of barley, or malt, or even yeast stocked up in some cupboard somewhere. If I can find that then I can go back to being the town – or underground facility – drunk," Haymitch ends with a little laugh. I know he's trying to lighten the depressing mood and I'm almost grateful for it.

I turn my head a little to assess Gale more thoroughly, and I instantly feel bad for getting a kick from his earlier fight. He doesn't seem too concerned for himself as his own eyes scan over me and although I'm completely covered from neck to toes in a thin, white sheet, I feel exposed to his all-seeing eyes. A good hunter can spot any inconsistencies with his setting and I don't even want to start thinking about what his mind is conjuring up.

Gale turns his gaze to the tubes of liquid painkillers propped up next to me and his eyes grow angry.

"Are these really necessary?" he demands, pointing at the plastic tubes while facing away from them to stare down Haymitch, "She didn't look this sick when the hovercraft picked her up from the arena and now look at her! She can barely move!"

His temper seems to have shot up out of nowhere, each word shouted at Haymitch with increasing volume. "And what the Hell is in this stuff, is this why that asshole outside won't let me in? Because they needed their privacy to tamper with whatever this is?"

"Do I look like the goddamn nurse here, boy?" Haymitch replies with a surprising amount of calm in his voice, balancing out the anger Gale is displaying. "You weren't her mentor, I was. I am, and I know for a damn fact she wasn't healthy in the arena. Us mentors are given a detailed screen of their vitals after all, so we can slowly track their death with precise detail. I betcha didn't know that one," he continues, walking to the side of the room and taking a seat on the one chair the room had. It was metal, just like the clock and the door.

'I wonder how much of this place is just pure metal,' I think, scanning the room for more metallic bits. I know we're in District Thirteen but I had always imagined it to be a town similar to the Seam.

It's crazy but suddenly I'm imagining the people of Thirteen as little metal robots, reproducing children in little metal test-tubes, pushing their little metal robot babies in little metal prams through endless rooms of white. The thought is so odd I turn to examine my I.V. drips and wonder whether there was any truth in Gale's rant – was there something other than painkillers coursing through my veins?

The thoughts also distract me for a moment from whatever Haymitch is saying, but I'm immediately brought back to the conversation as the rise in Haymitch's voice catches my attention.

"-fog gas, or acid gas, we're still not sure what it was exactly or every component that was in it. Not even Heavensbee knows. She was working off pure adrenaline and instinct to keep alive! It's no surprise to anyone with half a brain-cell that she's like this," Haymitch stands from the chair and brings his face inches in front of Gale.

"So I'd love to see you try to run, walk, or even take a piss with stuff like-," he picks up a chart lying on the bedside next to my head and starts to read with great difficulty, "Botulinum, digoxin, stri—strych-," he gives up and thrusts the clipboard towards Gale's chest, "in your system."

Gale barely glances down at what is written on the paper before placing it back next to my bed and brings a hand up to my forehead, gently smoothing down my hair, damp from sweat. It was such a gentle action, my first comforting touch since the arena. But all it really did was make my heart ache a little; it wasn't his comfort I needed right now. It's Peeta's.

Thinking about Peeta makes my chest hurt with a pain I know isn't related to my physical injuries. The sooner I get out of this mess the better.

Haymitch and Gale's argument turns into harsh whispers, which turn into an annoying buzzing in my ears rather than actual words. While I appreciate their presence I'd much rather they be silent or give me answers to questions I'm not able to ask. I wouldn't even know where to start with questions concerning Peeta, or Finnick, Beetee and Johanna, but there was one person I need to know about. Pushing away thoughts of the other victors I concentrate on getting enough saliva in my mouth to try to speak.

I feel my lips move, a soft groan breaking through the buzzing in my ears caused by the room's two visitors. Neither of them seem to notice. I lift my head a little, feeling my neck muscles shake with exertion against the soft touch of Gale's hand still resting against my forehead, and I attempt to speak again.

"Prim," I manage to whisper.

This time Gale turns to face me, cutting himself off in the middle of whatever he was saying to Haymitch.

"Prim? She's safe," he says, knowing exactly the questions I wanted to ask. "She's actually sleeping right now, or she should be. I caught her trying to see you a little bit ago with your mother but they weren't allowed in either and it's, what-" he glances towards the clock on the wall, "- a little past eleven now. They have a fairly strict curfew here. Fairly strict everything actually. I think they may even have times for when you can use their toilets, like we're trained pets that go on command," Gale snorts in derision.

Haymitch shakes his head, but it doesn't appear to be in disagreement to what Gale said.

"Your cousin is right," he starts while Gale shoots him possibly the dirtiest look I've ever seen him give. "She's fine. Better here than there after all. She'll get all the – well, not all – she'll get a lot of food and a warm place to sleep. It's not the worst that could have happened for her."

I'm so relieved at the news that I can feel the tension and stress just slip out of me, knowing my sister was safe here. I lower my straining neck back down onto my pillow, finally feeling the need to rest.

"Get some sleep," Haymitch says, noticing my exhaustion, "The nurse is convinced you'll be much more you tomorrow morning. Their drugs," he points to the drip, "are much more advanced than ours. They know what they're doing in the regard at least."

There are still questions nagging at the back of my mind though: where Peeta is being kept and whether he's in as bad form as I am. I know I should be focusing on sleeping to repair my body, so that I could face any new threat with my full strength but I need to know.

Years of hunting and providing for my family have lessened my empathy for others to the point where I could walk past starving Seam children and, as long as I thought of Prim's fragile frame and the large Hawthorne family, I could force the guilt of having something to eat away. Peeta wormed his way into my protective circle in little under a year. I couldn't even pinpoint the time I begun to care for his well-being on the same level as the Hawthorne's but it happened. I knew it wasn't during the first Games, was it during the aftermath? Perhaps it was just loyalty to him, to my Games partner who was willing to risk his life for me.

Being immobile is making me over-think so I try to push it from my mind. Lifting my neck up again I try to speak and Haymitch leans forward in anticipation.

"When… Peeta," I try to ask when Peeta will be taken off the drugs I assume he's on. I really hope he's not in a worse state than I was, I'm sure I suffered the blast of the breaking force field more than the others. Haymitch immediately lurches back from me and straightens up stiffly.

"Katniss," he starts softly, "Peeta… God, you have to understand the way things work here. You were considered more valuable to the rebellion. There wasn't enough time," he trails off. I understand the words he's using, but I don't understand what he's saying. In my drug-induced state it's unbelievably frustrating to try to make sense of it. I was valuable to a rebellion? What did that have to do with my question?

The familiar feeling of fear starts to pool in my stomach, forcing bile half-way up my throat. Was Peeta dead? My chest aches; Gale is looking away from me, running his hands down his dirty, crumpled shirt.

"Dead?" I rasp out. Haymitch shakes his head in denial and relief washes over me, replacing a large portion of the fear.

"No, he's not dead. They wouldn't bother picking him up if he was dead, they'd have no use for a corpse."

They. I know what he's going to say before he says it and I feel tears well up in the corners of my eyes, threatening to spill over. I refuse to let them fall, I'm better off angry than sad.

"The Capitol has him," Haymitch continues, confirming my thoughts, "Snow has Peeta. I'm so sorry, Katniss. You know I would've done anything to get him out of the arena; I would have done anything to get you out, too. We had to pick. They picked."

They picked me over Peeta. They thought I was more valuable to them than Peeta and I think they couldn't be more wrong. I don't even have the strength to be angry at Haymitch, despite the throbbing in my hand in anticipation of the punch my mind is ordering me to give. He looks so devastated that he might even take it, a far cry from the Haymitch arguing with Gale only a minute ago.

"Out," I command instead, in the steadiest voice I could give. Haymitch and Gale leave without question, not before Gale glares once more at the machine hooked into me.

I hope the nurse is right in the assumption that my health would be better tomorrow morning. I know it will take all my strength if I'm going to punch Haymitch and then plan a way to break Peeta out from Snow's grasp. In that order.

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